A/N: Well, this is a shorter chappy. Hope you still like it. And I still need five comments total on the alt-POV idea if you want me to take a crack at any of those. Well, I hope you like, and review if you will! I do love my reviewers. :3

I'm lost. I was too busy crashing through the trees to get away from Shaw to keep track of where I was going, and now I'm just trying to get myself out of a knot of roots.

I can't slash at them; I'm not strong enough to spear my way out of a paper bag if I can't get any momentum. I don't want to just hack away at the wood because I'll dull the spear blade.

So here I am, sweaty and a little muddy and covered in splinters, trying to squirm out of a narrow space I don't even know how I got into. Fun stuff.

I wonder what time it is now. There are dapples of harsh sunlight through the leaves, but I can't make out the sun from here. I'm sure it's still morning, though it's probably close to noon by now.

Whatever time it is, my stomach knows it's mealtime. Once I manage to get out of this mess… Well, I'll have to figure out where that blank spot near the Career camp is. There is not going to be any fishing in this area without a pole. I can't even see water where I am now.

With a loud rip and a score across my back from a stray branch, I manage to get free. The ripped portion of my shirt flips up over my head, and I have to shuffle around to get my hands free enough to fix it.

I've only just gotten started up a tree when the knuckles on my right hand start to throb. I turn to check it out, but the sight makes me sick.

The area I had injured on my hand days before is now a sickening blackish brown color. I'm sure the cut on my forehead is no better, and the new scratch across my back will turn that way as well, but it doesn't matter. The field of tributes is thinning, I'm close to the Career camp, and I'm either going to go on a killing rampage or get found and killed. Or maybe both.

I don't think a little infection will hurt me that much.

I look back at the path I made—it's not as distinct as the Careers' was, since I'm not strong enough to forge a real path through these things—and I can make out enough splintered branches to pick my way back toward the more open path.

I'm not able to pick out any sounds from other tributes, even though I take a few minutes to make sure, so I start for the Career camp.

The going is significantly easier here, but I'm moving just about as slowly; this is definitely a code-red danger zone. I check for traps, but it's unlikely the Careers would resort to one—Twig and Rim don't exactly seem like the sharpest tools in the shed, and I don't think Kyta would want to bother with wire or buttons, anyway.

But the sunlight grows stronger and stronger, and the dark areas between the rays grow smaller and smaller, and before I know it, I can see through the last two trees in the mangrove.

And the open area is not mud, not shrubbery, but beautiful, clear blue water. I can't say if it's safe to drink—the Careers are sure to have plenty of filtering supplies, so it wouldn't matter to them—but every one of the three-foot-wide islands poking out of it is hard-packed dirt.

I can make out a tightly rolled-up sleeping bag on one of them—it must be a spare they never had to use—but I can't see any more supplies from here, and I don't want to take the chance of walking out into the open.

I hear a shuffling, and I immediately step back into the cover of the splintered mangrove branches. Someone's voice—I think it's Kyta's—is audible, though I can't hear what she's saying. I go ahead and go further into the mangroves, but I have to scale a tree to get anywhere.

From here, I can actually make out the Career camp. Facing me—but thankfully not looking up far enough—are Kyta and Rim, both sitting on their own particularly tall mounds of earth about the same width as the ones I saw earlier. Kyta's glaring at Rim for some reason, and he's glaring back, but I can't seem to make out their one-sided conversation from here.

In the middle of their elliptical camp is a much larger island piled high with Cornucopia goodies and donations. That shiny, purple javelin is at the bottom of the pile, obviously unused. It's kind of irritating, really. That something I wanted so badly but couldn't have made its way so easily into the hands of those that would never use it.

At the sides of the pile, near the water, is most of their food supply. Apples and potatoes and ready-to-eat meal packets that are so, so much more appetizing than fish eyes. But I could never obtain them. The Careers wouldn't be likely to fall asleep before I do, and trying to snatch it in daylight is a surefire suicide mission.

Of course, nearly everything in this place is a suicide mission, but a little food isn't worth it. Although I really am hungry. Hunting near the Career camp wouldn't be a good idea, and it's quite a long way before the trees thin out enough to get to any fish…

No, I think, shaking my head to dispel the thought. It's better to go hungry for a few hours than risk a tangle with the Careers.

And what would I do if they caught me? Try to fight back? Make a few weak scratches as they tear me limb from limb? I'm not even sure if I'm able to kill anyone mentally. Unless I have another psychotic incident—unlikely, since all of my allies are dead—I really can't do anything. No reason for me to kill. I can't kill them to get home, because I won't. I can't kill them out of hatred, because the only one of them I really hated is already dead. I can't kill them for the sake of killing, because of my upbringing. All in all, I just can't kill them.

I sigh silently and direct my gaze closer to my tree. Twig is on his own little island, munching down on something.

I wonder what it would be like to be a Career. As a child from District 4, it was always an option for me. Often, representatives would come to our school with posters and speeches, showing us how great a career choice it was. You got out of regular school and into a specialized survival training school, where you learned how to wrap up a wound instead of how the district's livelihood used to be called the Gulf of Mexico. You got an enhanced, artificial diet program that you could never afford to eat without district funds. Everything about your life changed, from the mattress you slept on to the little time you could spend with your family.

I never thought it was worth it. I never wanted to miss out on a single moment with Dad, and that would happen a lot if I were out training 24/7.

But I never thought the Reaping that already seems so long ago would go the way it did. Would I have chosen differently if I did? Would I shun my parents for years but live to make it up to them?

Would I win the Hunger Games?

Well, none of it matters now. I didn't choose that path, and I'm going to have to live with it. Or die with it. We'll just have to see what happens.

I look back down at Twig, and my heart stops.

It's not him; he hasn't shown any signs of knowing I'm here. It's what he's eating.

The Heron family's salmon jerky.

What is this? It's one thing to take all the money, all the weapons, all the supplies, all the food, even. But my own mother worked extra hours in her already too-long shift to prepare some food for me and have enough funds to send it, and once the officials get their hands on it, what do they do with it? They send it straight to Twig!

After all, these are the Hunger Games! We won't let any kindness in here! No mother can be allowed to care for her hopeless child here!

And what about any other support that's been sent for me? Anything from my friends, or just someone who wanted that little underdog to win? Guess what! They send that off to Twig, too!

So here I am, dirty and hungry and dehydrated, staring down the one person here I truly hate.

You are going to die, Twig. You are going to die.